Caring is Not an Advantage
by sharkvee
Summary: Sherlock, after faking his suicide, has hidden away and is realizing just how caring he truly is. A journal about how John is breaking him out of his almost mechanical state; showing his heart on his sleeve. For once, Mycroft's words turn a bitter flavor.


**Caring is Not an Advantage**

My public blog has made me forget that a secretkeeper of paper was ever so reliable. Now is one of those times these things must be kept to myself, under the conditions that for all intensive purposes, I no longer exist.

My brother always accused me when I was younger of having no heart. I postulated he merely said that because he was projecting his own faults on me. However, as I grew older, the notion became more than an idea that he may be correct and more that something I grew into under his wing. Both of us were inhumanly systematic, and receiving such less pain than others, but ever since I met John, I have begun to contemplate whether the pain and misunderstanding I seem to cause is worth my cool indifference. A short time ago, Mycroft was absolutely correct to me in every possible aspect: "All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

I told John I was 'married to my work', which seemed to endlessly perplex him. I recall once now what I previously thought to be a strange question of his that I now regret my reaction to. This man is changing me, and I haven't the slightest clue as to how he's managed to break my paradigm, or even if he tried. He asked if I needed him for anything. I, living my entire life prior learning to be self-sufficient and not reliant on any others, of course did not need him for anything. He seemed put off by my answer, and for the longest time, things such as this didn't bother me in the slightest.

Now I realize I truly should have answered quite the contrary. Mycroft may be correct from a practical standpoint; and I, as a practical person, adhered to his rule without any remorse, until now.  
>There is a glorious duality of man I have been entirely missing for the fear of being hurt. In fact, that was the prime reason I flinched at any notion of a 'relationship'. John, though. John…he's subtly showing me things I miss; things that can't be deduced. It's a peculiar world; one of guessing, trust, and faith. I never suppose, and I am never wrong. This, though, is different. John would rejoice at my being wrong, in a friendly way, and it wouldn't bother me in the slightest. It sounds strange to say, but he's reminded me that I walk the same earth as others I try to avoid. I'm human. He made me feel human again; grounded. I didn't have friends because I didn't want to lose any. I lived alone because I didn't want to know the sight of an empty chair. Now, I'm breaking slowly out of my methods, just to see if he catches it, just to see if the methodical madness I've forced myself to stay to can coexist with this partnership.<p>

I find myself wanting him to follow me, be by my side. At first it was because I finally had somebody to impress, but the fact that he lit up when I was excited showed me that there was something I was missing. Something Mycroft didn't teach me, something I've never bared to venture into: love. I hate to label it as such, as I know John would hate it were he to know I thought of it in that fashion, but most's definition of love is not that of which I have for John. This love is a mutual dependence, but no need to try to enjoy each other's company. This love surpasses friendship, but not in the way he cringes at. In a way that has melted the heart of stone in the former machine of myself that I did not know was capable of complex emotions. He hoped I must at least have some friends, and with not a pinch of untruth, I told him I don't have any, not one. Merely enemies.

This, at the time, was a false statement as well. My definition of 'enemy' then was just a shell of what it truly is. Someone who threatens the validity or worth of my work? What a shallow and selfish assumption. Take Moriarty, for example. He was always and ever shall be, dead or alive, my enemy. But he became so later in the true sense of the word: in that he threatened the only person I truly cared about. And I fear that if I come back to tell John everything I write here, Moriarty's men will have him, and in one fell swoop, they will take him from me and therefore the second breath of life I have received. It erodes at me to watch him grieve: broken, scared, shocked - but at the same time it comforts me. We made a connection.

He is my only friend. John and I are absolutely two halves. If this journal ever makes it to his hands, or I am ever able to express this to him in a form that is other than his tomb, let these words ring: John Watson, you have changed me, and for you and you alone would I pay the final price. I will see you again, and I will see you soon; as the farther we stretch apart, the greater toll it has on my newborn heart. I have outsmarted the enemy, and I will return. I love you, John.


End file.
